Four of my favorite things are fireworks, a parade, christmas trees and christmas lights.
A sucker for festive spectacle.
From our old apartment, if you popped the screen out of the kitchen window, stuck your head out and craned around, you could almost kind of see the fireworks they set off at the ballpark.
Anyway, my point is that I had been looking forward to this.
(I know. It doesn’t compute. Don’t even try.)
and it will be tempting to drape in glow and gauze The Night We Brought Home Her First Christmas Tree.
Here is how it was.
We bought it at the S-Mart Foods grocery store at the end of the next block and walked it home in a drizzle.
By the time we got a skirt around it, Alice was tired and flirting with crankiness.
Better than the ornaments, she liked the polystyrene peanuts they were packed in.
Don’t let her eat them.
Don’t let her pull down the lights.
I gave her a sleighbell with a ribbon looped through it.
She did until she started swinging it into the floor like a mace.
(Where you lead, I will follow. That’s a discipline.)
Last year, David’s mother shipped to us the ornaments she had collected for him, one Christmas at a time, since he was born.
I appreciate that commitment to a maybe-someday whose outlines are so faint and far-off.
David would grow up, would marry, would have a family. And for a while, they would be at the start of things, with place settings for eight, the electric tea kettle from her dorm room and not very much to hang on the Christmas tree.
Was it how I always imagined?
Not at all. But yes, exactly.